Epilogue
Leaning against a mound of throw pillows, Cynthia admired the bold yet delicate henna adorning the back of her hand: below a mandala, the henna artist had drawn a thick, intricate pattern of vines and lace around her wrist like a cuff.
The same lacey flora swirled around her fingers.
Gorgeous. Maybe she’d get her other hand done, too, once all the guests had gotten a chance to receive theirs.
Cynthia turned to look at Naomi, who lounged beside her, her feet, ankles, hands, and arms already stained with the dark brown paste.
She was about to compliment her friend’s bridal henna when she realized Naomi was humming along to the song playing faintly through the speakers with a suggestive smirk on her face.
Cynthia grabbed a small velvet cushion and with careful, gentle precision, bopped her friend over the head.
“Hey!” Naomi yelped, her eyes widening in alarm until she realized her drying henna remained untouched.
Cynthia fingered the soft edge of the throw pillow. “How did you even get this song in?” The playlist, so far, had been mostly Bollywood music, and the number of oldies but goodies hinted to Cynthia that Naomi’s future mother-in-law, or someone of that age group, had curated the song selection.
“I may have slipped in a few.” Naomi grinned and notched her chin at the gathering in Dev’s childhood home’s backyard.
“You know how I like to mess with tradition.” All around them, guests sat at tables, chatting and admiring one another’s henna.
Kids ran around on the available green space and a steady stream of people kept spilling out of the house, plates piled high with snacks.
Cynthia and the bride-to-be had stationed themselves at the luxurious, glamping-style nook set up specifically for Naomi by her mother-in-law and aunt, and Cynthia was honored to be in this chosen spot.
A bride’s henna party was a time-honored ritual, usually reserved for the bride and female guests only, but Naomi and Dev had elected to invite everyone, and the groom had even grudgingly allowed one of the henna artists to create a small design on his inner wrist with Naomi’s name hidden inside.
She’d done the same for Naomi, too, but with Dev’s name, and Naomi was being suspiciously tight-lipped about its placement as, per tradition, it was Dev’s responsibility to find his name marked somewhere on her body on their wedding night.
“Besides…” Naomi added, reclining back onto her little throne of pillows. “How could I resist when I found out you were bringing Rohit with you?”
It was Cynthia’s turn to grin—try as she might to hide it—as her gaze found Rohit almost immediately. He was surrounded by a small contingent of aunties by the coolers, and from the way they fluttered around him, it was obvious they were charmed.
Cynthia’s grin deepened.
“Should I have added ‘Hopelessly Devoted to You’?” Naomi asked.
Cynthia bopped her on the head again.
“Hey, stop beating up my wife,” Dev’s voice called as he made his way toward them.
“She’s not your wife yet,” Cynthia reminded him.
Dev angled his intense gaze on Naomi. “Two days,” he said, a dimple flashing in his cheek as his lips lifted in a smile.
Cynthia’s heart flooded with something deeper and more robust than happiness for her friend, whose face turned several shades of pink that easily rivaled the rich magenta of the bridal sari she would wear two days from now.
But Cynthia couldn’t tease her or laugh at Naomi’s expense, not when she understood why, even as Naomi ducked her head, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from her fiancé.
Cynthia understood it all too well, and when her eyes found Rohit again, her heart skittered in anticipation when he broke away from his fans to join them.
“My mom wants to introduce you to some out-of-town friends,” Dev said to Naomi as he carefully helped her to her feet.
“See you later,” Naomi called as Dev led her away, but Cynthia barely registered their departure.
Because Rohit had found her.
He nodded easily at Dev and Naomi before gingerly taking a seat beside Cynthia.
“What’s wrong?” Cynthia asked, raising her eyebrows.
“What do you mean?” Rohit asked innocently as he slowly stretched his legs in front of him.
“You’re moving like an old man. Are you hurt or something?”
Rohit grinned and reached down toward his left pant leg and slowly eased the hem upward. Cynthia gasped as the edges of a simple but familiar henna design came into view on the inside of Rohit’s ankle. Her name written in script, surrounded by the same style of vines that decorated her wrist.
Cynthia’s chest squeezed and she gave in to the desire to wrap her arms around herself by wrapping her arms around him instead, careful to keep her henna-stained hand away from his clothing but holding him tight all the same.
“Is this more romantic than stolen pickup lines, or what?” he asked.
“I like them both,” Cynthia said, her lips brushing his earlobe, prompting Rohit to shiver. Cynthia held on tighter.
The urge to confess that she’d like—no, love—moments like these with Rohit for the rest of her life was strong.
That she never wanted to let go of him, that for so long, she’d been empty and hadn’t even known it and now, she was full.
Deliciously, wonderfully, perfectly full.
He was her beginning and her end, he’d be everything in the middle, too.
And whether that middle was soft or hard, shaky or easy, if they were together, she’d always feel whole.
But she didn’t bother to say any of these words. For now, it was enough to hold on tight and press the feelings close to her chest.
Besides, he’d had her name etched on his ankle. He already knew.